


Messages In Bottles

by I_Write_Sins_and_Tragedies



Series: From Time To Time [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alpha Dave's POV, Blood, Born from a "why didn't they just" idea, For all except like a few small paragraphs in chapter two, Gen, Mentions of Death, plenty of cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-30 12:56:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19853629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Write_Sins_and_Tragedies/pseuds/I_Write_Sins_and_Tragedies
Summary: There's only so much you can do as the parent of a kid you'll never meet. With 400 years between the two of you, the only way you can ever talk to him is through recordings. You just hope you recorded everything he needs to hear.





	1. #1 - Introductory Babble

**Author's Note:**

> It seemed really odd to me that Alpha Dave and Rose didn't think to leave any messages for their kids. Writings, recordings, *something*. My best guess is The Condesce or Lord English would destroy whatever the guardians left for the kids, if they tried. 
> 
> Also, I'm well aware that this would completely mess with Dirk's perception of his Bro and thus alter his interactions with Dave when they met. Probably changes his personality up too, in ways I'm not entirely sure of. Let's just definitely file this fic into "AU" territory.

The camera blinks red and you check your setup one more time before moving to take a seat in the old wooden chair you set out in front of it. It's not the most comfortable thing that you own, but it's wide and sturdy and good for fidgeting in. The exact sort of seat someone like you needs when you're about to do a lot of talking. At least, the kind of talking you get up to when you aren't in an interview, sitting all stiff and neat with a perfect poker face on and a closed off charm that interviewers can never seem to get enough of. 

This is the kind of talking that you fall into during your calls with Rose. The kind that will go on forever if she lets it. The kind that usually ends with you pacing and waving the hand that isn't holding your phone up to your ear. The kind that tends to get aimless the longer you go on for, even though you usually start out with a point to make.

Hopefully you don't fall into your bad habit before you actually get around to making your first point.

As you sit back in the chair, feel the wood dig into your back, you flash a smile at the camera that's all charm and almost entirely fake, until you remind yourself that this isn't a video for the masses. No eyes are meant to ever see this footage except family's.

Huh. Family. Now there's a thought you ain't used to.

Right, the point.

"Hey, lil' man." You open with, and your smile relaxes into something more real. That endearment rolls of your tongue more naturally than it has any right to when you can't remember even saying it before this point. "Dirk, right? I hope it's Dirk, or this is gonna be awkward as hell for somebody. Like some poor bastard opening Pandora's Box, except it ain't a box that ends the world. More like a box that'd totally ruin the public 'cool guy' front I got going on here."

The point, Dave. Remember the _point_. You blank your face out of habit for a moment, the way you always do when you're thinking business, and then soften it again right after. You don't need to _do_ that for this. You shouldn't. You shouldn't close yourself off. The kid is going to be alone, right? That's what Rose said, anyways - that he would be completely isolated. That-

Right, the point.

"I'm gonna just assume this is Dirk watching and forget all that shit, though." Should you be swearing? He's gonna be a kid, maybe, when he finds these. But then, does it matter? "So, I guess I should say 'hi'. Or- fuck, I already said 'hi', Jegus." You tilt your head back and huff, push a hand up under your shades to rub at your eyes. When's the last time you slept?

Doesn't matter.

"Alright, so this ain't a great first 'hello'. Kinda already figured. 'Ve never been good at talkin' without a big point to make. I mean, shit, you'll probably know more about what's going to happen than I do, right? Rose said there'll be records, or- or archives, I dunno, something that'll let you know what's gonna go down better than I can. Or has gone down. Guess it's old news for you, huh?"

You look back to the camera and smile again, but you know it doesn't reach your eyes. Good thing your shades block that, huh?

Wait, no. No, not good. You said you weren't going to close yourself off. The kid needs as much human contact as he can get, even if it's just. Just an echo of you. You push your shades onto the top of your head and rub a hand down your face again.

"Kinda fucked up, you being all alone out there... Rose already told me I couldn't make a JPEG time-machine, and I told her "fuck you, I'll make all the shitty DeLoreans that I damn well please, just watch me." She said she couldn't watch me through the phone, wily bitch, so I sent her a video of me making twenty of the damn things."

You snort softly and feel your smile grow a little smaller, a little sad. This time you do cover it up, but only to smile a bigger, faker smile as you lean forwards. Your elbows dig into your legs and you lace your fingers together, rest your chin on top like a half-assed human pyramid.

"None of them worked, by the way. I mean, obviously they didn't, or I'd be telling you all this shit in person. Nah, all they did was summon a bunch of pumpkins from God-knows-where. Or when. Damn, I hope I didn't cause some shitty time paradox with that stunt, Rose would kill me for it. 'Least Maplehoof was happy with it. Can't tell if it made cleanup easier or worse in the end with her eatin' so much."

And you are miles off the point. If there was a point. Is there a point to this video anymore? This was just the introductory shit, getting you used to talking across time to someone you'll never meet and letting the kid get acquainted with the disaster that is one (1) Dave Strider.

The kid. _Your_ kid.

You blank your expression on reflex for a moment. The drive to hide any emotion that isn't deliberately telegraphed is automatic for you now, and you aren't even sure if you want to let Dirk see you get upset. Not in the first video, at least. Not like this.

You break out of your trance in an instant, smile like you didn't just go dead silent for a solid minute there and refocus your gaze on the camera. "Anyways, I'm gonna call it here, lil' man. Take care of yourself, alright?" Do you get to say that? It's what you're supposed to say when you end a conversation with your kid (he's _your kid_ , hopy _shit_ ), right?

Probably.

You get up and turn the camera off before you waste five minutes of the battery life just silently thinking in circles.


	2. #??/#14 - Bluh Depressing Shit Mostly (also go to bed)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave does not take kindly to Donald Glover's assassination, nor does he like the thought of his kid having bad sleeping habits. Too bad those are genetic.

You very rarely get drunk, and you very rarely aren't lonely. The reason that you rarely get drunk (besides the obvious) is that when you get drunk _and_ lonely, you sort of become a mess. When you're drunk, lonely, and grieving? You upgrade from "Mess" to "Catastrophe".

"That fucking _witch_ had him killed!" You almost shout the words that have been rattling around your head for the past twenty-nine hours. You're pacing in front of the camera like a caged animal, somehow not stumbling every time you spin on your heel when you run out of space in either direction. You aren't shit-faced, but you haven't slept one bit since you got the hysteric, shell-shocked phone-call from your product manager yesterday at some unholy time in the AM.

You don't know why your first instinct, once Rose gently told you to go to bed after listening to two hours of your ranting, was to go to the corner you've set aside for your personal recordings to Dirk and start another video. It's not like you'd ever save this shit and set it up for him to find, once you get sober and actually... _think_ this whole thing through. It's just that you've. Well, developed a habit of 'talking to him' when you need to talk with somebody and no one else is there.

"She wasn't even _subtle_ about it! Three shots right fuckin'- Lined up just like that stupid _fork_ she throws around. Here and here and right fuckin' _here!_ " You jab your finger into your chest, starting from your collar bone and across your left lung, right to the center of your sternum. Right over your heart. "He wasn't even breathing when the ambulance got there, Dirk, he- He was just-"

Your voice breaks and you feel all of your energy draining away at once. Your arms slowly lower to your sides and you drag your feet to the chair before practically collapsing into it. A hand pushes up under your shades to rub at your eyes, both aching and itching from exhaustion, and your fingers pull away damper than you'd like them to.

"He said he wanted to start a family soon." You say hollowly, staring at the moisture glistening on your fingertips. "He and Michelle, they were going to- They were hoping that maybe things would settle down enough that they could..." You finally look back up to the camera, and you feel helpless. Your voice is so soft, the mic probably can't even pick it up. "I couldn't do a damn thing to stop it..."

He didn't expect you to. He knew what he was getting into after you made it clear to him that his face would become a piece of propaganda if he stuck with SBAHJ, almost two years ago to the day.

You're still the one who let this happen to him.

* * *

You turn the camera back on two days later, in the dead of night, and this time you aren't drunk. The footage of your breakdown is nothing but a digital ghost now, never to be seen, but you still feel like you owe Dirk an update. Or you just need to talk this shit out. Again.

"Hey, lil' man." You greet, but your voice sounds tired. You are tired. So tired. You haven't slept. Not really. Not more than maybe a couple hours last night.

There's no humanly possible way to salvage your hair right now, but you still comb your hands through it in some feeble attempt to seem presentable as you lean back in your chair. If you're being honest, it's just so your hands have something to do.

You don't really talk for a minute, or maybe two, maybe five, maybe forever. But you eventually shake yourself out of it and drop your hands back into your lap and look to the camera out of the corner of your eye. The motion will be hidden by your shades (your _new_ shades), but for once, you don't take them off. Can't.

"...Don's dead. Batterwitch got him. Got him good, got him so there wasn't-" You have to stop yourself from getting worked up again. Clench your hands into fists, relax them, repeat a few times and heave a longer sigh. "Shit couldn't have been stopped..." That feels like a lie, and you wrinkle your nose at it. "Shoulda been stopped. Can't stop it now, 's too late for that."

Rose told you with gentle but infuriating confidence on the second night that there was no way you could have stopped it. You cussed her out 'til your eyes burned and you ran out of breath, and she spoke softly to you until you promised you'd try to sleep. You spent the whole night sitting on the couch staring at nothing until the sun rose and your phone's ringing forced you to move.

You've been quiet for too long. If your kid actually manages to sit through all these long-ass pauses that get sprinkled into your videos, he's got the patience of a saint.

Right, your kid. This is an- an update for him. You're supposed to be telling him shit.

"Broke my damn shades, you know." You say, a little quieter, instead of bringing up anything actually relevant. "Stepped on 'em, don't ask me how."

You threw them on the ground like a toddler throwing a tantrum is how. Total meltdown when you stepped out of a meeting the other day after discussing what you'd do with the half-complete footage of Don for the next movie with your team.

"Stiller gave me his, told me to hang on to 'em." You idly reach up to adjust them on your face, slide a finger over the smooth rim before dropping your hand back down. "Said it was no problem, but you know what it was?" 'Depressing' comes to mind. Your lips pull down and you scowl at the floor. "It was him giving me some shit to hang on to, if anything ever happens to him like it did to Don. Says he won't opt out of filming, which puts an even bigger target on his back. Batterwitch won't be happy about her intimidation tactics not slowing us down."

You just grasp your hands together at this point, hold them tight enough that it hurts, and don't let go.

"And you know what? Fuck her. She thinks this shit'll make us stop? I'm gonna release this damn movie six months early and she can _choke_ on it. Got it all lined up for April first and everything." A bitter, wistful grin twists your face as you finally look up to the camera. "She can have what's left of me after my production manager flays my ass. Got cussed out real good over the phone this morning, after I made the announcement. Don't think I've slept more'n three hours these past few days, and I'd bet cash I ain't gonna sleep any better 'til we get this damn movie finished."

A bit of an exaggeration, if only because you need to be well rested enough to survive the assassination attempts that are undoubtedly coming your way from here on out. How much time will you need each night, five hours? Four? Maybe three, if you give up on sweetening your coffee and just go hard on the espresso.

Jegus, you're a mess.

"This is gonna be one'a those 'do as I say, not as I do' moments kiddo; do _not_ model your sleep schedule after mine." You finally lift your shades up enough to make direct eye-contact with the camera, channel your inner dad as much as you can before you drop the aviators right back to their place on your nose. "I'm a walking disaster and kids need their damn beauty rest. Don't know all the specifics, but it ain't fuckin' _healthy_ to be missing out on sleep when you're still growing."

Maybe you should look up the specifics, just to get your point across. Or just leave a file with everything written out, so you sound like less of an insufferable prick during the next video. As if that's physically possible. 

You rock back on your chair for a moment before leaning forwards again as a new thought drops into your head, leveling the camera with a flat stare. "Dirk, if you're watching this at like 2 AM or some shit, I'm gonna rise from the dead and haunt your ass."

**== > Years In The Future...**  


You pause halfway through rubbing one of your eyes with a balled fist and forget about your oncoming yawn. In the corner of your computer screen, the clock reads 2:24 AM, and you get chills from the impenetrable stare your Bro is leveling at you.

It's only childish paranoia (or hope; it really is hope) that prompts you to pause the video and cock your head, listening carefully for any sounds that are out of the ordinary. But all you hear is the faint rush of the ocean, the just as soft whisper of the breeze, and you see no ghosts when you look around your dark apartment.

Damn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I was writing that last part at exactly 2:24 AM because I too am a disaster.


	3. #42 - (Important) Sword Fighting Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave teaches his kid how to sword fight. That'll probably be important at some point, right?

You hadn't really thought of recording anything for Dirk beyond the office corner before. Didn't think about it at all, actually, until you were standing over an assassin's corpse, sword bloody and your breaths coming out heavy with exertion. But then you watched as pink light from a neon sign nearby reflected off your blade, blinding fuchsia glinting off of steel. And the next thing you knew, you were in your apartment, clearing out the living room with almost manic energy and getting the camera set up on its tripod to face outwards from the wall you usually sit in front of.

"Hey, lil' man, you found your sword yet?" You greet, all briskness and business right now. It must have been over an hour ago since you had that fight, and you're still feeling adrenaline. "Hope so, we got shit to cover. Don't suppose there's anyone out there teachin' you this shit, so lil' ol' me will have to do."

There's no blood left on your sword for Dirk to see, when you step back from camera. It was all scrubbed away when you got home in preparation for this. You turn so your side faces the lens and hold your blade up with both hands, just as perfectly poised as your feet. This stance is as familiar to you as it is breathing for how often you practiced it. 

"First things first, gotta have your shit in order before you even start swinging. You stand right, you swing right - that's how this works. You keep a good grip, you don't lock up any joints. Especially nothing you need for dodging. Knees never lock straight; that's how you get your leg broken like a Kit-Kat."

You talk through every point of your stance. Everything that Dirk might need to hear that he can't tell from just looking, and then some. Probably spend five minutes just going over this one pose before switching to actually swinging. A sharp sweep upwards, lightning-fast but strong enough that it would completely eviscerate anything in the way.

"Gotta bring your sword back to you fast. Soon as you finish swinging. If you miss, you'll need it up to block if you ain't already dodging. Shouldn't strike unless you think there'll be contact anyhow, but just in case."

And on you go, proceeding to show him the best ways to block, then a new stance, then how to parry. You talk for hours, probably. Until the camera starts sending you signals that it's going to give up the ghost. And then you plug it in, start a new video picking up right where you left off, and you keep going. You go and go until there's nothing left that you can show him in the confines of your apartment. And then you go over the basics again, rapid-fire. Drill it in. _Hope_ it gets drilled in. Hope he'll see this one day, hope he learns to protect himself .

"You gotta be ready for what's comin', lil' man." You tell him, when you finally stop. You look to the camera and you imagine what Dirk would look like standing there. Staring up at you with big eyes, holding a sword that maybe doesn't quite fit right in his hand yet, but will some day. Something tightens just a little in your throat.

"You gotta be ready. Bet my damn sword that witch won't leave you alone out there. Maybe she's already started shit, and you're finding this after you already figured out what the hell you're doing." Worst case scenario is he never sees this because he didn't survive long enough-

Cut that thought there. Cut this video here. You're spiralling, and it's five in the morning and you've got to get yourself calm enough for work.

"Anyways, I gotta go. Maybe I'll get a slow-mo camera and teach you how to flash-step some time. Shit, I should. Alright. See you then, kiddo." You flash-step to the camera and click it off. Maybe for emphasis, maybe for lack of time.

Maybe you'll find some place you can record yourself doing the shit you couldn't do in your cramped apartment for him. Later.


	4. #67 - Random Shit (Part 12)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the best ideas come when you're just rambling. That's probably why Dave does it so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super tiny chapter here. Pretty much a snippet of how most of Dave's recordings go, when he doesn't have something specific in mind to convey. Or after he says whatever he needs to.

Most days, you talk to Dirk because you need to. Because there's so much stuff to teach him. Because you remember some random fact that he might need in the middle of lunch or in the dead of night and scramble for the nearest recording device (then wind up rambling for minutes longer than you intended). Because there are so many things that you want to say to him that you'll never have the chance to in person.

And then there are days like this, where you just want to _talk_ and nobody else is there to listen. You'd like to think he'd listen, anyways, even if that would be an award-worthy accomplishment at this point. You aren't sure exactly how many hours of footage of yourself just talking and talking and _talking_ there are by now, but it's gotta be a lot.

That sure as hell ain't gonna stop you from upping the count.

"I swear she doesn't even have a nose? Like the fuckin' anti-Rudolph. Gonna get yourself lost if you try searching for that thing. Ho ho ho kiddos, Christmas is cancelled and it wasn't even the Grinch that stole it, no sir, it was space fish Hitler and her damn un-nose." You pause, just a beat. "...Shit, is that like, racist? Fish-racist? Dirk am I alien-fish-racist?"

You scowl up at the ceiling a little and ponder while you spin your pencil from finger to finger. Technically, you're supposed to be working on the next screenplay for your upcoming movie, but you made the mistake of thinking you could talk to your kid and work at the same time.

...Actually.

"Shit, that might be like, a good one-liner in there somewhere, hang on." You prop yourself up and scribble something into your notes. You'd be worried about having a physical copy of your plans bouncing around like this, if your shorthand wasn't practically a code of its own already. And if it made literally any damn sense to anyone except you. "Maybe I should have Stiller say this with a shitty Texan accent." You mumble, tapping the tip of your pencil to the paper a few times before grinning and adding another note. "Hell yeah."

Not that you'll use such an obviously anti-Batterwitch line word for word. Not yet, anyways - maybe when this little rebellion of yours ascends past just subtle (or not-so-subtle, depending on who you ask) jabs through cinematography. When, not if. You know it can't stay this lowkey forever. Hell if you would let it, anyways.

Right, the camera.

You glance up to it and flash a grin that feels more real than most of the smiles you give nowadays. "Maybe I should talk to you more when I gotta write screenplays, lil' man. This shit's gold. Straight-up dip that turd in the melting pot and let it cool. Maybe make a dozen and throw 'em at someone-"

Oh shit, that's a great idea.

You forget to finish that sentence as you get back to writing. 


	5. #119 - (Important) Putting In Stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some lessons aren't as clean as others. Gotta teach Dirk how to get his hands dirty at some point, right?

Damn, it's been a while. But then, you've been busy. Still are busy, technically. This is still just as much a job as everything else in your life, and today you can't say turning the camera on relaxes you.

"Don't freak out, lil' man, I'm not dying. Least, I'm not dying yet." You say it right off the bat, because it sort of _looks_ like you might be dying. Your white shirt is soaked through with blood around your left ribs, and the red patch has spread so much that it looks a hell of a lot worse than it actually is. Or at least probably is.

"Gotta teach you how to deal with bad cuts some time. Today's just a golden fuckin' opportunity, I guess. More gold 'n a turd dipped in the stuff, anyway." You can't manage much humor in your voice right now, but you still smile a false smile as you sit back on a wooden stool. Not your chair, nah, that's got your first aid kit in it.

You snag a pair of scissors from beside the kit first though, and glance back to the camera. "Rule of thumb: don't pull a wound open more trying to save your shirt. It's probably already ruined anyways, so just get that shit off without making things worse." With that, you just carefully snip through the fabric from the bottom up to your collar, then slice through your left sleeve so you don't have to move that side. Normally you wouldn't bother, but this is a lesson for Dirk. Gotta do this shit right for him.

With the shirt peeled off, you get your first good look at the cut, and it takes a conscious effort not to grimace. It looks bad. Deep and bloody and longer than your hand, stretching diagonally over your side.

"Damn, that thing got me good. Note for the record, lil' man, those drones like to target your dominant side." Like to target where it's harder to defend, harder to swing, harder to use both hands to block. You suspect he'll figure all that out without you having to say as much. "Anyway."

You set the scissors aside and open the first aid kit, grabbing the rubbing alcohol first. "First order'a business, clean your hands. Infection's just as likely to kill you as anything else. Next, you gotta clean up the wound. Get all the blood and shit gone and make sure it's disinfected."

And you do just that, keep your left arm back and body twisted in a way that you hope will let Dirk get a good view of what you're doing. "Then you gotta stitch it up. Gotta make sure you don't bleed out like a juice pack some kid poked wrong." You snag the stitching materials and ignore the blood still trickling from the gash. "Pay good attention, kiddo, this part's a huge pain in the ass if you don't know what you're doing."

So you show him how to thread a needle, how to tie it, how to put the stitches in and how to tie them off. Needlessly add that it'll hurt, that you'll bleed a bit more but it'll be fine, you're fine, just gotta get through this bit. You finish wiping the excess blood away eventually and sigh, look up to the camera with a tired smile that doesn't reach your eyes, but that doesn't matter. You haven't taken off your shades and don't really care to right now. Maybe it'll be more reassuring for him if he can't see how fake you're being.

...Does he need reassurance? You're going to die. He must know _how_ you die already, even better than you do. Must know this ain't it. You don't need to pretend here.

You do it anyway.

"Just gotta bandage up and then put everything away now. Don't pull your stitches, alright? Don't need to make things worse than they are. 'Less you need to-" You pause and clench your hands as you instinctively reject the next words. "Unless you gotta push through it to avoid gettin' hurt worse. 'M sure you figured that out, though. I bet you're a smart kid... Anyway, bandages."

You show him that part too, and then how to pack up the first aid kit so it's clean and ready for the next time. Get that shit put away real quick, though you don't really have the energy to flash-step, and drag the chair over to replace the stool once you're done.

"Stitches for a cut like this should come out in about...fuck, what was it, a week or two? It changes, dependin' on where you put 'em in and how bad the cut is. I'll look it up and leave you a list, save you the trouble. Hope this shit doesn't gross you out, I gotta show you when I take 'em out."

You tip your head back and just stare at the ceiling for a few long seconds, drum your fingers over the armrest four at a time from pinkie to index. Damn, you could almost sleep like this, if it wouldn't be murder on your neck. You should sleep though. Should take a second to rest while you got it.

"Gonna go take a nap, kiddo. Gotta rest up much as you can while your body heals, ya know?" You lift your head back up to smile another false smile at the camera before you push yourself to your feet. "Take care of yourself, man."

And you really, really hope he will.


	6. #128 - Final Recording

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was always going to have to be a "last time". If only this wasn't it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure there are plenty of other things I could write about Dave recording, and who knows? I might think of something worth slipping in at a later date. But for now, I'm gonna settle here. If you have any suggestions for what you'd like me to write about Dave telling Dirk, by all means! I might like the idea and add a chapter based on it.
> 
> Also, keep an eye out, because I'm a slut for guardian revival AUs and will probably post a small fic of Dirk and his bro reuniting some time in the next week, if I can.

You can't find a smile when you flick the camera on. It's the dead of night and you aren't in the 'office' of your apartment. You're in the bedroom. Lights off, blinds drawn, hands shaking with nervous energy. You've stripped the bed, wrapped the mattress in plastic to protect it, put the new sheets in a plastic bag tucked away for the day that someone else can use them.

"Dirk." You have to speak quietly, but you think your voice would be this soft anyways. Your mic should pick it up anyway, though - you bought one that clips to your shirt for this sort of reason. It's probably so clear that he'll be able to hear the faint rasp in your voice.

"'S been months, lil' man. Things have really kicked off into high gear. Stiller's gone - told you that in the last video. He ain't the only one, my- Everyone from the studio's been taken out. Everyone 'cept me." Okay, deep breaths, Dave. Flex your hands a few times. Push your shades up so he can see your eyes. You know they're going to give away so much emotion, but it doesn't matter anymore.

"That ain't gonna be true for long. Rose called me. She finished off Fieri last night, and she's...we'll be meeting in Washington in a couple days, once we finish up with...packing." You swallow hard and look around, spread your hands to gesture at the bedroom. "Doin' our best to get everything ready for you kids. I've been going through the list and keep thinking of shit I need to add. Keep asking Rose if I've forgotten anything. She finally said 'no' when I called earlier today. So I guess everything you need, I managed to get. God, I hope I did. I hope you'll be okay, I-"

You need to stop to swallow, and you lace your fingers together and press them to your lips. You're so tired here, in your end. It's not even solely because you haven't slept much, you're just bone-deep weary of having to think about every little thing. You're tired and you're worried, and a part of you is mourning for something other than humanity's downfall.

"Gonna miss this shit. Gonna miss making these videos for you. I keep trying to remember if there's anything I left out, forgot to tell you. I probably forgot so much shit. Gonna realize it halfway to Washington and won't be able to do a damn thing about it. This is the last video, if you couldn't already tell..."

He should able to. You're going to mark this video nice and clear for him, so he's prepared. Will he grieve for you when he already knew this was going to happen? You hope so. A selfish part of you does, at least, while the rest of you spits at the idea of causing your kid any grief.

"Wish this wasn't it. Wish I could live long enough after fighting that witch to tell you all about it. Maybe give you a few tips, but." You snort softly through your nose and smile bitterly. Are your eyes damper? "Clearly, I ain't gonna be the number one authority on how to beat that bitch. Ain't gonna be much of an authority on anything soon..."

You lean back a little and sigh. Clock's ticking, you know. You gotta record this, get all the messages set up, do a double-check of the apartment to be sure you've got everything set up right, and then it's off to Washington. Off to the end.

"I'm fuckin' proud of you, Dirk, you know that?" You ask into the empty air of your not very empty apartment, and look to the camera. "I can't even imagine what it's gotta be like for you, all alone out there. You don't even gotta do anything big; that's just a bonus if you do, you know, feel free to surprise me here, but like. Making it. Just fucking _surviving_ all the shit you must've already gone through? That shit's tough. You've gotta be one hell of a tough kid to have made it this far."

You haven't even met him. You don't even know what he looks like, or what exactly he's been through, but you still can't shake the fact that you're _proud_. So fucking proud of your kid.

You wish you could meet him.

"I gotta go now, lil' man." Your words are a murmur as you look to the floor. "Gotta make sure this place is set up just right before I go meet Rose." Before you go and die. "...Take care of yourself, kiddo. Dirk. I mean it." You hope the look you give to the camera conveys that just as well, before you lean over and shut it off for the very last time.


End file.
